


How to start a werewolf turf war 101

by Lady_sans_the_tramp



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bad First Meetings, Enemies to Lovers, Good Alpha Derek Hale, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Scott is a Good Friend, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Stiles Stilinski's protection squad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25173070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_sans_the_tramp/pseuds/Lady_sans_the_tramp
Summary: Cora comes back after a couple of minutes, swinging her hips and smirking like the cat who got the cream. He does not foresee good news incoming.“Stiles, remember what I told you about being safer with us right now?” she says sweetly, stealing a dorito straight from Isaac’s hand as she heads over their way.He frowns and nods slowly, “You mean when you all but kidnapped and dragged me to your house after sixth period today?”.“Exactly.” She flops down on the couch beside him and he grabs a handful of chips to shove in his mouth before she can put her thieving ways to nefarious use by pilfering the bag from him. “You’re moving in,” she announces, like it’s the most natural sequitur in the world.“What?” he sputters, choking on his mouthful of doritos.In which Stiles is a (not so clueless) college student who unknowingly walks into a werewolf turf war. Shut up, Scott. He totally saw this coming.
Relationships: Cora Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Stiles Stilinski & Malia Tate
Comments: 22
Kudos: 93





	How to start a werewolf turf war 101

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this is honestly, hopefully someone will find it entertaining.

He hates planes. 

He hates plane so much. 

And he’s about to shove his complimentary water bottle in Scott’s face if the traitor doesn’t stop snorting everytime the goddamn plane shakes and Stiles grabs for the amrest like it’s his lifeline. Cap optional. 

Kira, bless her soul, at least shows him some empathy. 

“It’ll be ok, Stiles,” she says, a wrinkle of genuine concern between her brows as she tries her best to reassure him. “You know, planes are much safer than cars.”

He doesn’t have the heart to shut her down when she starts talking statistics like every other person who tries to number the reasons why planes should be everybody’s top pick. Biting off her head would be equivalent, or worse really, to kicking a puppy. Although he’s revising his policy on puppy kicking, specifically the one sitting next to him. 

With his luck, he’d probably just end up bruising his foot, though. He’s not gonna give Scott the satisfaction. He’ll resign himself to sulking in his aisle side corner and making plans to hide Scott’s underwear in very strategically selected places of their dorm’s common room as soon as they touch down in NY. Vengeance will yet be his.

The flight attendant is making her way down the aisle with the food cart again, a way too bright of a smile plastered on her face as she goes -- no one could ever be that glad to be stuck on a plane twelve hours out of a day -- and he debates the pros and cons of buying a bag of cheetos.

Cons: he’s feeling a little nauseous so he might end up barfing them up before they even manage to land; he’s not feeling all that hungry (see con #1 - nausea); plus he doesn’t feel like giving the plane a show when he ends up throwing up said cheetos.

Pros: their Scott’s favorite, so he can gorge on them and enjoy the look on his face when he withholds best friend snack sharing privileges from his treacherous ass.

He feels like the pros carry a lot of weight even if the cons greatly outnumber them in quantity.

He decides to get the snacks out of pettiness and is shockingly betrayed by Kira when she ceedes the cheetos bestowed upon her to enemy. The nerve!

His stomach starts resenting his choice about half way through the bag so he stashes it away and distracts himself by taking a few sips of water. 

Kira and Scott are taking selfies again, most of them with Scott just smiling adoringly at her, so he kicks backs and tries to take a nap again. Not that he’s actually going to manage some shut-eye in this metal death trap, he’d have to be seriously sleep deprived for that to happen -- which he actually tried to be, however his plan was cruelly foiled by his father -- but at the very least, with his eyes closed, he’s saved from the sickeningly sweet display of puppy love going on to his right. He can feel the cavities setting in his teeth just from the close proximity. 

And he’s still got to get through two more hours of this. He’s honestly ready to throw in the towel and go for the side door like he’s in a Tom Cruise action movie. He’s a good actor, despite what Lydia says -- he’s managed to keep the supernatural a secret from his father for this long, after all -- he’d play the part well. 

He actually manages to find a somewhat relaxed headspace after a few minutes of quiet meditation -- the plane isn’t shaking as much, Kira and Scott stopped with the photos and are currently just looking out the window, probably cloud gazing or something, and the cheeto induced nausea is actually fading away -- and then that one obligatory flight baby starts bellowing its lungs out.

He looks at his watch. One hour and forty minutes left. 

* * *

When they finally disembark, his legs feel numb and like they’ll have the consistency of jello if he tries to run on them. Thankfully they hold his weight without much fanfare and he trails out of the plane, following the hoards of people to the baggage claim area so they can pick up their bags and be on their way.

The weather is much colder than he expected in NY, he’s gonna need a lot more time until his internal thermostat corrects itself from californian temperature ranges to this ice blizzard climate straight out of a frozen movie that he’s stepped into. He finds himself shivering in the cool air even after pulling a jacket over his hoodie. 

Scott doesn’t seem to mind the cold much, but he has unfair werewolfy adaptive advantages, so his opinion is invalid. He tells him as much and turns his back on whatever retort he cooks up so he can grab his red suitcase that just showed up on the carousel.

He wheels the baggage over to the spot his friends had chosen to wait in, more to the back of the room and behind where most of the people were congregating, and plops down on top of it, using it as seat. Scott is squinting at the circling suitcases, probably trying to make out his boring brown case from the rest of the other nondescript bags. _Now,_ who has the superior ideas? Joke’s on Scott for refusing to acknowledge Stiles’ brilliance when choosing flashy colored suitcases.

He has to wait an additional ten minutes before Scott and Kira both have their checked baggage with them, time which he uses to call his dad and shoot a text to Lydia, Allison and Jackson to let them know they landed safely. After that, they finally make their way to the arrival terminal, where Mr. Yukimura is supposedly waiting for them.

His phone buzzes in his backpocket as they step out onto the tarmac outside and he pulls it out to see a reply from Allison.

**[Buffy 2.0] today at 16:23** **  
**glad you got in ok!  
let me know when you get settled into your dorms!

He shoots her a quick text back as Kira calls her dad and maneuvers them through the masses gathering outside the building to a more secluded corner where her parent’s familiar toyota is waiting for them. He’s very thankful they have a helpful ex-New Yorker like Kira to guide them through this utter chaos of a place. 

They throw their bags in the trunk and Stiles squeezes into the backseat with Scott, not that it’s cramped in the back of the spacious toyota. Stiles will never again complain about lack of room after being forced to ride in the backseat of Jackson’s _tiny little_ porsche with Allison and Kira.

Kira gets in the passenger seat next to their dad and then they’re off. They make small talk with Mr. Yukimura on the way, answering questions about what electives they’d be choosing and if they were excited to start their first year of college.

* * *

All things considered, they’d gotten a pretty sweet deal with their dorm. It was surprisingly roomy, with two single beds for him and Scott, none of those bunk traps he was dreading -- he already shouldn’t be entrusted with staying on top of a regular height bed, God knows how he would have fared with a ceiling-high one. He’d probably break his neck on the first night.

It also had a lot of light, compliments of a large window between their beds, right over a desk he’d immediately called dibs on. He isn’t anticipating spending a lot of time studying in his room though, he’s already surveyed the grounds and hunted down a hip little coffee shop that suits his interests and allows humble students such as himself to hang out in overtime. He’ll probably hole up in there for the rest of the semester when deadlines start looming and his daily uptake of caffeine increases exponentially. 

For the moment though, he still has to get through orientation. Scott and Kira both got separated into different groups, so he’s been flying solo for the day. He’s already talked to a few people and found a couple of girls with the same major as him, though. He can totally get by on his own. Just because he’s had the same consistent circle of friends for the past three years doesn’t mean he can’t branch out and meet new people!

In fact the cute brunette that sat down next to him appears to have some of his electives, which is a perfect conversation starter topic. He couldn’t ask for a better opportunity!

He figures the best solution to combat ‘meeting new people’ anxiety is to just let his mouth run on its own, a skill he is most proficient in, so he goes in for the kill. “Hey, look at that! We have the same classes, I’m in english lit and econ1 too...” 

He trails off because the girl raises her head to bestow upon him the blankest of all stares. He wasn’t expecting an ecstatic response or anything, but he’d hoped at least for a polite dismissal if she was that turned off by him that she didn’t even want to talk. It’s not like he was asking for her number, he was just trying to be friendly!

The silence extends awkwardly between them and he starts feeling the urge to fidget. Stiles is not a naturally silent person, ok? If there’s an awkward silence, his brain is automatically going to try to fill it with awkward rambling instead. It’s a trigger response. 

“Humm,” he entones, at a loss for words and feeling a rush of treacherous blood rising to his cheeks. He has no idea what to follow with so ends up mumbling out, “I’m Stiles.”

The girl continues to say nothing, presenting him with the best rendition of a poker face he’s ever seen -- he bets she _does_ run an underground network of high-stakes illegal card games, she looks dangerous enough -- and her nose twitches, like she’s smelled something unpleasant. Stiles showered just this morning and he has it on high authority -- Scott’s nose -- that his natural scent isn’t pungent or anything like that, so he’s pretty sure he’s not to blame for this one. 

Still, this situation is turning out to be incredibly mortifying, more so than he’s used to. He clears his throat and turns back to his computer, hoping to salvage what’s left of his dignity and put this miserable one-way conversation behind him when the girl finally speaks up.

“Malia.”

He jumps in his chair, not expecting her to say anything at all, and spins back around to face her. This is progress! She gave him his name! He thinks. Maybe this conversation isn’t as damned as it first seemed.

“That’s great!” he blurts out, and proceeds to mentally facepalm. “I mean it’s great that I’m meeting you, another person with the same classes. I came here with my best bud and his girlfriend so I haven’t really met anyone else yet. Not that I don’t know other people, we just got separated for college, you know how it is. So it’s great that I’m meeting you…here... at orientation.”

The girl frowns during his long-winded attempt at an explanation, and he grimaces -- this time externally -- at how badly he’s butchering this. Although it’s not like she’s doing anything to help matters much! He gets the feeling she’s the strong silent type. 

“You’re weird,” she says, but it doesn’t sound like she’s trying to insult him, just stating a fact, which, well, he’d have to admit she’s right on. He’ll take it.

“I’ve been called worse.” 

* * *

The weather has been taking a turn for the worse, even more so than when he landed in this iceland, so he’s taken to leaving his dorm with two undershirts, a hoodie and his warmest jacket. He hopes it doesn’t get to be much colder than this, but he’s only been here a week and autumn has barely began to set in yet, at least according to the locals. He finds that hard to believe.

He’s now thinking he’s gonna spend a lot more time in this coffeeshop than he initially predicted. The coffee maker in their dorm is broken, which is apparently a common occurrence, but he’d been able to grab a mug of it on his first day so he knows first hand how much it sucks either way. And he needs a warm cup of joe to thaw out his insides in this grueling weather and keep his motivation up.

Classes are only starting officially next monday, but he figured there’d be no harm in getting a lay of the land and read up on the materials lest he free fall into them, plus he’s here on a scholarship (not a lacrosse granted one like Scott, though), so he’ll need to keep his grades up. 

That’s why he’s sitting in what he’s dubbed his college foxhole and is completely engrossed in next week’s ‘ _Theories of crime causation_ ’’s case study. And it’s also why he completely forgot about his overly sweet and slightly overcomplicated expensive drink about halfway through the cup. 

When he finally remembers the grande extra-whip, extra-shot caramel mocha he paid five bucks for, the thing is completely cold and disgusting. He tentatively takes another sip and promptly turns his nose at the sugary cold coffee assaulting his taste buds. It’s a lost cause. At least he managed to drink half of it before its existence was completely obliterated from his mind. 

He lets out a long sigh and shuts his computer, gathering up his things to go. It’s getting dark and he needs to be getting home anyway. Scott was hanging with Kira this afternoon, but she had an important dinner with her parents tonight, so they had to reschedule date night. Which means Stiles is finally getting a bro’s night with Scott, which he’s actually looking forward too.

This first week has been busier than he expected. He’s barely seeing Scott, aside from when he gets back to their dorm at eight o'clock of the night (they haven’t managed to grab lunch together during the day yet, although that’s probably going to change once orientation is over), and even then, Scott is mostly out with Kira. 

And it’s not like Stiles is jealous -- he loves Kira, the girl is like a ray of sunshine wrapped in sugar coated cotton candy, it’s impossible to dislike her (which seems to be a recurring theme in Scott’s girlfriends, it must be the adorable puppy thing he has going for himself) -- but he misses his best bud sometimes.

He needs to get home before Scott gets any ideas and tries to cook them pasta again, though. The dorm is still recovering from last thursday when he decided to put his (nonexistent) cooking skills to use and make them dinner.

He grabs the cup of disgustingly cold coffee he needs to throw out and looks around the shop to locate the trash can. He spots it on the other side of the room at the same time his phone buzzes on the table, signaling an incoming text message. He grabs it, leaving the rest of his stuff behind as he goes to throw out the cold mocha, and checks to see who it came from.

Now, retrospectively, _maybe_ Stiles should have known better than to try to work his phone while carrying a liquid filled container in his other hand, considering his track record and lack of coordination. But it was _Lydia_. One does not simply keep Lydia waiting unless they want their manhood cut off and thrown in a boiling broth of other offenders’ body parts. Not that he was comparing Lydia to a wicked disturbingly sexual-deviant witch. He just likes his body parts where they are. Attached.

Unfortunately, his good intentions don’t do him much good as he slams face first into what has to be wall (given how hard his head bounces off of it) and gets his favorite hoodie drenched in overly sweet cold coffee mix. He stumbles back, flailing around, and only avoids a graceless tumble to the ground thanks to the little railing separating the tables from the corridor that catches him in the lower back -- which ouch, that’s definitely gonna leave a bruise. 

He looks down disparagingly at the coffee stained mess that is now his hoodie and glares accusingly at the empty coffee cup rolling in the ground towards someone’s fancy leather shoes. Wait. That’s not a wall. 

His eyes wander up at the equally coffee-drenched white shirt. The difference is that this particular piece clothing is doing a much better job of pretending its owner is in one of those perfume commercials than Stiles’. You know, the ones where the male model is wearing a wet see-through t-shirt that sticks perfectly to his airbrush sculpted abs like that’s something completely common and comfortable for normal people to do. Life is unfair.

And the abercrombie wannabe is still holding his own coffee cup, so points on him for not dropping it when Stiles rammed into him, that takes skill. Which Stiles evidently does not possess. As is clear by the coffee staining both their clothing and pooling on the ground. At least it was cold! No third degree burns and possible lawsuits filed against him. His dad would be so proud. 

Stiles’ eyes choose that moment to amble up even further and he can feel the blood leaving his face as he stares at the positively murderous face that this dark-haired adonis is directing at him. Stiles is pretty sure that hot-stranger dude has indeed managed to kill some part of him deep down simply from the sole intensity of his murder-glare. 

It doesn’t help that the whole coffeeshop has gone completely silent, likely expecting a brawl to break out between them due to the angry vibes emanating from hot-stranger dude. He really hopes the guy doesn’t actually decide to fight him. Stiles is a grand total of one hundred and forty seven measly pounds, there’s a _reason_ he always got benched in lacrosse! He wouldn’t last 30 seconds in a showdown with this guy!

“I’m... sorry?” He squeaks out, and has no idea why his voice has decided to betray him and take on an interrogative tone or why this is even his life. Is the stranger going to kill him? He looks like he might kill him. 

Thankfully, hot-stranger dude ends up not taking that course of action, probably because of the witness filled coffeeshop. He simply growls something at Stiles that sounds like a variation of ‘watch where you’re going’, with a pinch of profanities thrown in there for good measure, before charging out of the coffeeshop and shoulder-checking him on the way. Stiles is glad, he was two seconds away from playing the ‘my dad is the sheriff’ card. No one needs to know that the county is question is two thousand miles away.

He sags against the railing in relief, and proceeds to fumblingly remove himself from the corridor while picking up his phone -- which he also dropped when he crashed into hot-stranger duder’s rock-hard abs -- when one of the clerks shows up with a mop to clean away the mess Stiles’ blunder left on the shop’s floor. He apologizes to the guy, who actually shoots him a concerned look and asks if he’s ok.

Stiles manages a weak nod and extricates himself from the situation by darting to his table, where all his stuff is still laying, thankfully, and bolting out of the coffeeshop. 

Thankfully, hot-stranger dude doesn’t seem to be waiting for him outside to settle scores or something equally terrifying, so he makes his way to the bus stop in his coffee-drenched steel blue sweatshirt and star wars themed backpack -- shut up Scott, it’s cool. Speaking of, maybe he can finally convince Scott to watch the first movie with him tonight. He can’t take much more of this to be honest, if Scott still hasn’t watched star wars by the end of their college freshman year, Stiles is revoking best friend titles.

He fishes his phone out from his pocket, relieved to find it still in working order, even though the screen cracked a little more in the corner. It was already sporting a little dent in its side from when Scott dropped it while attempting to take questionable photos in the bathroom. _Why the hell didn’t you use_ your _phone, Scott? Did you forget you had one?,_ answered by, _Mine was charging,_ _yours was closer!_ \-- also known as the downside of your best friend knowing the codes to every digital device you own. 

He unlocks it and goes to messages, bringing up Lydia’s thread.

**[Our queen and ruler] today at 18:27** **  
**Hey loser  
Jackson’s coming over this weekend so clear your schedule  
And make sure Scott doesn’t forget about it 

_Ah great_ , jackass extraordinaire is coming to town. It isn’t that Stiles actively dislikes Jackson anymore -- they sort of became reluctant friends after the whole werewolf fiasco in sophomore year of high school -- but they’ve got that kind of unspoken sibling rivalry friendship. Because, even though Jackson doesn’t go out of his way to make Scott and Stiles’ lives a living hell anymore, he’s still kind of a dick. He’s better taken in small doses and at a distance, preferably overseas.

He has no idea how Lydia managed to date him for three whole years, he’d be pulling his hair out in tufts by week two. He grimaces and texts out a reply.

**[Stiles] today at 18:35** **  
**I like your mean girls impression  
I’ll make sure to book me and Scott tickets out of the country, thanks for the heads up

**[Our queen and ruler] today at 18:36** **  
**Haha

* * *

He makes it back the dorm by seven thirteen, and is glad to see no fire trucks or hoses in sight. Which means he’s still in time to talk Scott down from whatever youtube cooking video he’s decided to follow. 

He makes his way up to their floor, scoffing when he passes several doors already sporting some very jazzy looking ties. Predictably, when he steps inside their room, he can already hear Jamie Oliver’s dulcet tones resonating from Scott’s laptop.

“Hey, dude! Kira told me about these risotto things that- ” he puts a stop to Scott’s rambling by shutting the laptop lid and cutting off Jamie Oliver mid sentence.

“Hey. How about making the tuna pasta I bought for us the other day?”

Scott turns his nose, but relents, pushing away from his desk. 

“What happened to your hoodie?”

Stiles peels off the coffee soiled sweatshirt in question and tosses it in the hamper. Thankfully his undershirts were saved from the brunt of the spillage by the sweat, so they can avoid the laundry basket for now. The thing is starting to pile up however, they’ll need to take it to the washer soon. 

He’ll find a way to bribe Scott into laundry duty. Stiles doesn’t trust the washing machines anymore, not since one of them ate his last quarter on monday.

“I ran into a dude,” he says, pulling out a coffee-free grey hoodie from the dresser and slipping it on. 

“With your coffee?” 

“With my face. The spilled coffee was an unfortunate side effect.” Stiles crouches next to their mini food cupboard and retrieves the aforementioned tuna and pasta, along with some additional condiments. He has to play a short game of tetris with the rest of the closet’s contents, but he eventually manages to close the door again. “You should have seen the way that guy glared at me, though. I feared for my life.”

“You did spill coffee on him.”

“It was cold!” he squawks, tossing Scott the tuna cans. He catches them like the stupid werewolf with supernatural reflexes he is. “Speaking of, Lydia texted.”

“Oh yeah, she’s coming here on friday, right? Kira said she was crashing with her.” 

“And she’s bringing Jackson. Not it,” Stiles announces as exits the room and waits for Scott to follow. He already knows Jackson’s going to find a way to con one of them out of a bed, and Scott’s werewolf enhanced muscles will fare much better on their lumpy couch than Stiles’. He already has an uncanny ability of falling asleep in the most uncomfortable of places: his high school desk, the passengers seat of Stiles’ jeep, Stiles’ _shoulder._ He’ll be fine. 

Scott gives him a confused puppy frown, but it doesn’t take long for him to catch on. 

“Aww, come on dude,” he whines, dragging his feet as they make their way down to the common kitchen. “I hate the couch.”

“Everyone hates the couch, Scott. But you somehow still manage to _sleep_ in the couch, so suck it up buddy. And cheer up, I’m cooking you dinner.” 

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted Stiles and Scott to go to college in NY state, not city, since I wanted to keep the fact that Derek fled with his sister to NY canon (they never mentioned where exactly), and I wanted them to be somewhere where they still had forests around and a place for Derek’s pack to practice hermitage. However I also wanted them to be close enough to MIT so that Lydia hopping on a train to come see them is believable, and for them to be in a college worthy of Mr. Ken “Columbia teacher” Yukimura. So this college is totally made up.
> 
> I also never went to university in America, I only have my own very european college experience. So the minor/major system and honestly everything about american universities


End file.
